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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “the Breaking” Down in the Dirt (v134) (the January/February 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book A Stormy Beginning the Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Gravenhurst

Carmen Tudor

    The heavily gabled roof slumped over the gray, creeper-clad walls of Gravenhurst Hall as if it would crush the house at any moment. Celia took in the sight of the ancient manor house and likened it to the photo images she’d seen over the years. Her mother had kept a single photograph, a small square black and white picture, in a box. In it, her mother stood out the front with her own mother and grandmother. The three weren’t smiling; they stared at the photographer with a desolate look that was all hooded eyes and downturned lips. Celia had stolen the photograph the year she turned eleven. She’d kept it for now, for the moment she would arrive and take her mother’s, and grandmother’s, and great-grandmother’s place.
    Celia nodded to the driver. He resumed his driver’s seat and led the car around to the garages. As Celia stood by her bags at the large entrance doors, a wind swept over the unfamiliar landscape. Such pretty trees, Celia thought. So pretty, but so frightfully tall. Each dark-needled conifer towered over the old garden and blocked out the gentle morning sunlight. It was a surprisingly warm ray that bypassed the trees and settled on Celia’s young face. She blinked up at the sky.
    The weeks passed steadily at Gravenhurst. Aunt Veronica, Uncle Peter, and Tristan returned home from their trip to Scarborough. Tristan brought a friend from school. His name was Allan, and at sixteen he was three years older than Celia. He watched her with the interest a haunted, bedevilled man watches a rat that scratches—unseen, always unseen—behind a wall.
    And just like that, Tristan banished Celia to the second floor. All the grown up things, all the fun, was reserved for the third floor attic. The mildewy spaces, the shelves, and the little closet with the spectral round window; the forbidden books, the empty fireplace grate that whistled when the wind blew, these things were forbidden to Celia. During her second week of Allan’s fitful watching, Celia stole a moment to search the attic. Tristan was out for polo practice. Allan, with his dark eyes and long lashes, was downstairs in the library. He read books, Celia noted. Almost as many as she did.
    Forgetting her banishment, she knelt by the round window inside the added-in closet. The plasterboard was pock-marked and cracked. Destined, she thought, to fall down any day. But the light in that one little closet was brighter than in any part of the attic rooms. She held the book under the window and read the lines slowly.
    “What are you doing?”
    Allan’s voice startled her. Celia snapped the heavy bookends together. A small cloud of dust rose in the streaming light. It hovered over Celia’s form as she stared at the boy in the doorway.
    “Just looking at a book.”
    Allan stepped into the small closet. “Which book is it? There are some good ones up here, you know? Witchcraft. Ghosts.” He took a step closer. “Devil worship and all that.”
    “Stop it.”
    “Hauntings and lost souls...”
    “Aunt Veronica and Uncle Peter wouldn’t allow you and Tristan in here either. If they knew...”
    Allan smiled. Celia thought it the nicest smile she’d ever seen. Her cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
    Celia held up the book for Allan to see. Stories of the Damned. The hardcover book had lost its dust jacket and the silver lettering along the spine was almost entirely moth-eaten. She saw that Allan had to squint to read the letters. When he had discerned the words, he nodded somberly.
    “And did you find what you were looking for?”
    Celia was about to ask him what he meant, but he interrupted her.
    “I’ve heard that nobody ever finds what they are seeking at Gravenhurst. Why, the name alone is smothered in dust and decay.”
    “What do you mean?” She wasn’t sure if she liked Allan or despised him. In all the time they had seen each other walking the lonely corridors of Gravenhurst, he’d never said more than two words to her. Oh,’syou. Tea’s overdrawn. Good night.
    “Gravenhurst is indeed a place for those who seek. An Aladdin’s cave of opportunity for the lost. In fact, I came here to find something myself.”
    “What are you looking for?” Celia asked.
    Allan closed the distance between the two of them. He bent down and lifted a finger to Celia’s face, trailed it over her cheek. “You.”
    Celia backed into the corner. Her heart hammered wildly at this new nearness. Allan searched the girl’s face intimately.
    “Don’t you see?” he asked. “All this time, all these years I’ve walked the empty earth. I didn’t think I’d find you. But now...here you are.”
    “What are you talking about? I’ve only just met you.”
    “Do you know what it is to wait, Celia?”
    Celia’s skin broke out in goosebumps as Allan spoke her name. She shook her head, but wanted to reach forward and kiss him, or push him away. Kick him in the face, maybe.
    “Endless nights. Neverending days. The years pass slowly. But now...now there is no time. There. Is. No. Time.”
    Allan took the book from Celia’s hands. There was no space to back up in, nowhere else to go. The boy continued to gaze deeply into her startled eyes.
    “Did you read my story?” he asked. He put the book down on the floor. “In there? Did you read about me? About us?”
    “Our story?”
    Allan nodded. He smiled again, but there was nothing nice, nothing agreeable, this time. “The one where I take you away. Back to where we belong. Down, down...”
    Celia’s breaths quickened. She didn’t want to be trapped with Allan any longer. The light in his eyes frightened her. She knew no one would come up to the attic and rescue her. Tristan wouldn’t be home for hours.
    Allan took Celia’s hand. She stood on shaking legs. “Are you ready to come with me?”
    “No,” Celia whimpered. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks in spite of her plans to be older, to be more mature. To be a woman.
    As soon as he’d taken it, Allan dropped her hand. He stepped out of the enclosed space slowly. He pulled the door closed and from where Celia stood, she heard the key turn in the lock. He barked out a laugh. “Ha. Then you’ll have to wait a bit longer.” Suddenly, Allan’s roaring laughter sounded from the other side of the door.
    Celia banged on the door. “Allan! Let me out!”
    “Sorry, kid. Can’t. Can’t do it. After all, seems you’re not ready to come out.” She heard mocking laughter in his voice even now. “’Fraid you’ll have to wait a tad longer.”
    The light from the little round window began to fade. Up here the windows received full sun. The conifers were tall, but they had never reached this height. Looking out over the garden, Celia saw the sky darken. The mild summer weather forgot itself and, as Allan’s voice slipped under the door and into the closet, the sky opened and a heavy rain fell outside of Gravenhurst.
    “Allan, I’m scared. Please. Please let me out. I promise not to tell Aunt Veronica. Or Tristan. You don’t know what you’re doing. You just don’t know what you’ve done.”
    Celia shook all over. The goosebumps that had risen from Allan’s words now returned from the cold stillness of the room. Celia wished she hadn’t read that book.
    Great-grandmother.
    Grandmother.
    Mother.
    Me.
    The stories, those tales of damned souls shadowing a place, ricocheted all over her mind. She slumped down onto the floor. There, at the base of the door, she saw the dark shadow of Allan’s shoes. As she watched, the image seemed to shift.
    “No,” she whispered. She pressed her eyes shut. And opened them. Another pair of feet sidled up next to the boy’s. Celia covered her face and counted to ten. The rain on the roof was the only sound she heard.
     When she opened her eyes, the space under the door was empty. She stood quickly and pounded on the door. She tried the doorknob—maybe Allan had had a change of heart. With trepid fingers, she turned the knob. The door squeaked and swung open. Celia took a tentative step into the attic room and looked about. The room was empty.
    Allan was gone. And so was his visitor.
#
    “Where’s Allan?” Tristan asked. Grubby from his polo game, his ruddy cheeks glistened with sweat.
    Celia shook her head. “I don’t know.”
    “That’s strange. I’ve run up and down looking all over this blasted house. I can’t seem to find him anywhere.”
    “I’m sure he’s about.”
    Tristan walked away from his young cousin, but stopped. “You weren’t up in the attic were you?”
    Celia shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”
    Tristan rubbed his forehead absently. “The little closet with the window is locked from the inside. It was open when I left. And damned if I can figure out how to open it now.”
    Celia nodded and backed away from Tristan. “I’m sure Allan will turn up. Just wait. You’ll find what you’re looking for. Sooner. Or later.”
    Tristan blinked slowly.
    Celia continued to back up. This house wasn’t right for her. Or maybe that was the problem: the house was right for her. “You see,” she said, “I’ve waited for things. Neverending days, as they say. And they always come to pass.”

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